


Go Back to the World

by Sour_Idealist



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 19:30:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11515920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sour_Idealist/pseuds/Sour_Idealist
Summary: Katsuki Yuuri is a war hero; Minami Kenjirou's personal idol; and is spending his military retirement quietly hauling asteroids at a training-stint station in a forgotten corner of the galaxy. Yurio Plisetsky is an abrasive, arrogant mess of a pilot, but he seems to know what's going on. Kenjirou doesn't want to invade anyone's privacy, but he does want to understand.





	Go Back to the World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feelingwhimsy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feelingwhimsy/gifts).



> Happy... summer exchange season, feelingwhimsy! Your request for a space au caught my attention, and I did my best. I've tried to keep in mind your request for a fairly lighthearted story, and I can promise that this has a happy ending, but it does contain a **warning** for themes involving war and the toll it takes, and the struggle to adjust afterwards. 
> 
> Many, many thanks to my husband for reading an incomplete draft, and for informing me that I needed to do some editing because I'd strongly implied a major character death by accident. (No character death appears in this fic.)
> 
> Title is from 'Night Comes On' by Leonard Cohen.

The two best pilots in the system are arguing with each other, and Kenjirou has just dropped pudding into his lap watching them.

More precisely, Yurio Plisetsky, from one of the Jupiter moon colonies, is shouting at Katsuki Yuuri of Kepler-42 Landing, who is eating mashed potatoes and trying to ignore him. The two of them are also right in front of the table with the napkins.

Kenjirou does now have an entire spoonful of chocolate pudding on his knee. There’s no reason _not_ to go over and get some napkins to clean it up. It’s the sensible thing.

“—this stupid _vacuum,”_ Plisetsky snaps. “Hauling asteroids!”

“Yes, you’re much better than this,” Yuuri says, checking a datapad. “Maybe we should be conscripted into another war.”

“I didn’t _say_ that!” Plisetsky practically yells.  “I’m not an idiot.”

“I didn’t say you were.” Yuuri has not looked up from his datapad. He maneuvers another forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth, without looking at it or dropping food all over his shirt.

“I know what war is like,” Plisetsky snaps, lower. “I’m not saying –”

“Mm-hm.”

“Oh, fuck off!” Plisetsky snaps. Kenjirou jerks back, nearly knocking over the degradable forks. Yuuri does not appear to notice in any way.

“Language,” is all he says.

“Yes, I’m speaking it,” Plisetsky says. “Fuck off. You can’t tell me this is why you took up piloting.”

“I’m not telling you that.”

“Just because _Viktor_ decided he wanted to go on some kind of idiot sabbatical –”

Yuuri’s head jerks up. “Yurio,” he says. “Don’t talk about Viktor.”

“Oh, _excuse_ me,” Plisetsky sneers. “Your _precious_ Viktor, who’s probably driving Yakov insane right now –”

“Yurio,” Yuuri says, rubbing his forehead – rubbing at the silver circle of his interface implant as if it pains him. “I will walk away from this table.”

“Don’t bother,” Plisetsky snaps, and grabs his tray. “I was just leaving.”

The cafeteria, of course, is packed – hence why any of them are down here in the overflow seating. Even that is pretty crowded by now, and Plisetsky glares at some random technicians, scowls off, and stomps over to – Kenjirou gulps – Kenjirou’s abandoned little table. He drops his tray onto it with a clang that bounces his roll into his baked beans.

“Um.” Kenjirou sidles up  to his own table. “I was sitting here?”

Plisetsky glares up at him from behind his hair. “Oh.”

Kenjirou blinks at him and slides into his chair. Plisetsky grunts. “I thought someone hadn’t cleared their place,” he says, which is when Kenjirou realizes that Plisetsky is eating his pudding.

“I wasn’t done with that!” he protests. Plisetsky grunts again and shoves it across the table.

“Whatever,” he says.

“So…” Kenjirou clears his throat. “Why _did_ you train to be a pilot?”

“What?”

“I, uh – I couldn’t help overhearing –” This is, technically speaking, true. He wasn’t _trying_ to help it, but he couldn’t have anyway.

“Hmph.” Plisetsky tilts back in his chair. Kenjirou sighs and applies himself to his pudding, which is congealed by this point.

“…I grew up next to the launchyards,” Plisetsky says. “My grandpa had a house on one of the colony bridges, so the ships would lift off right past my window. And you could look down and see everything.”

“Oh.” Kenjirou blinks. “That sounds really loud.”

“It was.” Plisetsky stabs a baked bean as if it has done him personal offense.

“I wanted to be a pilot because of Mr. Katsuki,” Kenjirou confides as quietly as he can. “He was all over the news when I was growing up. You know. The Kepler war hero! And his family’s from the Japanese colony ships, like me, so he always seemed special to me. I couldn’t believe it when he took a contract out here! Did you know he has over five hundred wormhole jumps?”

“Meh.” Plisetsky slurps at his drink. “He’s not that special.”

Minami sputters. “You!” he says, and stands up, grabbing his tray. “You,” he says, “are a _very unpleasant person._ ” And with that, he stomps off.

* * *

The treadmill room is not exactly the most pleasant on the station. Well, actually it’s kind of a dump. People like exercise bikes and ellipticals, although Kenjirou isn’t sure if those rooms are nicer because people use them or if people use them because the rooms are nicer. But Kenjirou likes to run, sometimes – or, as now, just to walk. And sometimes it’s nice to have a few minutes without anyone else looking.

A clatter in the hallway cuts into the quiet, and Kenjirou laughs, shaking out his arms. It’ll be nice to have some company too.

 Plisetsky comes crashing through the door, and Kenjirou almost falls off the treadmill. Plisetsky hasn’t noticed him; he’s got earbuds in, blaring tinny beats Kenjirou can hear from across the room. If they were at the exercise bikes, Kenjirou could try to sneak out before Plisetsky noticed, but unfortunately: they’re in the treadmill closet.

“Hello!” Kenjirou says, as bravely as he can manage.

Plisetsky says exactly nothing.

“HELLO,” he tries. Plisetsky grunts. “How are you?”

Grunt. Plisetsky does take out an earbud, though.

“I said, how are you?”

Grunt.

“I managed to take in seven asteroids yesterday,” Kenjirou tries. “It’s a new record for me!”

“I got nine today,” Plisetsky says, stretching out his hamstrings. He’s in legging-knits tight enough that Kenjirou quickly looks at the wall. “The pig only got six.”

“The pig? What’s a pig?”

“Earth animal,” Plisetsky says, dropping to the floor. “Fat and lazy. I think they’re raised for meat someplace, in places where it’s not cheaper to vat-grow the protein. Anyway, it means lazy and ugly and stupid.”

“So who’s a pig?” Kenjirou slows the treadmill down a little. He ran a long way, and he likes this part. Plisetsky is pressed flat to the floor between his own legs now. “Your hair’s getting dirty, they haven’t cleaned in here lately.”

“I don’t care,” Plisetsky says. “And Katsuki, of course.”

“What?” Kenjirou twists around and has to grab at the supports of the treadmill to keep his balance. “Mr. Katsuki isn’t any of those things! He’s a _hero._ ”

“He’s _wasting_ himself,” Plisetsky says, prying himself off the floor. He pulls himself onto one of the treadmills, shaking the dust out of his hair. “It’s stupid. He’s acting like he’s happy out here doing nothing, picking fucking asteroids in for mining.”

“You’re out here picking asteroids,” Kenjirou says.

“I’m out here picking asteroids because I’m training, _technically,_ ” Plisetsky says, rolling his eyes. “Katsuki’s out here picking asteroids because he thinks that’s all he’s good for lately.”

“Well, after everything he’s done, he deserves a nice retirement,” Kenjirou says. “Or, you know, a retirement job! He deserves to get to do something peaceful and still fly.”

“Yeah, sure,” Pliesetsky says, “whatever. Except that’s not what’s happening. He’s ruining his life on purpose, and it’s _stupid._ He’d be a good pilot if he bothered, and if he doesn’t care enough to try and fly for real, why not just go home?”

“Shut up!” Kenjirou catches his breath; he almost shouted. “You talk like you know him. You don’t know him. You don’t know anything about him!”

“Shows what you know,” Plisetsky sneers. “He used to fly with one of my teacher’s best students.”

“So? Now he flies with me,” Kenjirou says.

“Yeah, but he’s not screwing you in the hangar bay.”

Kenjirou slams the stop button on the treadmill. “I don’t know why you’re like this,” he says. “But I’m going to go find someone _nice_ to talk to.”

* * *

Behind one of the potted plants that dot the cafeteria recycling air, Katsuki Yuuri is eating his lunch.

The cafeteria is crowded again. Kenjirou is going to have to share a table with _someone._ No one else is at Yuuri’s table, which could seat at least four – more, with the cafeteria as crowded as this. There’s no actual rule against it, and his dinner is getting cold.

“Um!” He clears his throat. “Can I sit here please!”

“Hm? Oh.” Yuuri – Mr. Katsuki, properly – blinks up at him. “Sure, I guess.” His voice is low, half-audible over the murmur of conversation. Still, however unenthused, it’s _permission._

“Thank you!” Kenjirou drops into the seat, pushing his stew around. “Um. How are you doing?”

“I’m all right.” Yuuri sips his juice.

“I had a pretty good haul today!” Kenjirou says. “Only five asteroids, but one of them was _big,_ 360 kilometers, and it looks like it’s going to be really mineral-rich. It’s good.”

“Mmmhm.”

“Um.” Kenjirou licks his lips. “You’re the reason I wanted to be a pilot, you know.”

That actually gets Katsuki Yuuri to look at him, at least. “Don’t,” he says. “I’m a bad reason.”

“Why not? You’re a _hero._ Everyone knows how you stopped a bombing run over Third Mars Basetown all on your own, it’s a legend! And what you did to protect the supply runs, at the wormhole jumps, and the –”

“I know what I did.” Yuuri resettles his degradable cutlery, his scattered napkins onto the tray.

“And you’re from _Kepler-42!_ From one of the original-Japanese colonies! I am too, you know,” he tacks on. Yuuri still isn’t looking at him. “All the other pilots I heard about during the war were from Earth, or at least the Sol system, but you – you were from all the way out here, and you still managed to make a difference, to _everyone!_ It was incredible.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“What? Yes it was –”

“ _No,_ ” Yuuri cuts him off, shoving his chair back. “It really wasn’t.”

“But – but –”

Yuuri picks up his tray. “See you,” he says, and vanishes quietly into the crowd.

Kenjirou rubs his hands over his eyes. “I don’t _understand,_ ” he says, to the table, to the absent man winding his way across the cafeteria. He’s got more sense than to _chase_ him, but he wants to do it, to say – “You have _medals,_ ” he whispers. “They talked about a statue for you at Landing. Why wouldn’t you think you mattered? Why shouldn’t I want to be like you?”

* * *

Kenjirou is rather taken aback to see Plisetsky in one of the public lounges – in the mining station’s smallest and shabbiest lounge, in fact. Although that also makes it the most deserted, which pulls both facts back into alignment. Plisetsky is sprawled out upside down in the squashiest chair, his feet pressed against the dirty slice of window. The reflected light of the asteroid belt catches off the bones of his ankle.

“Hello,” Kenjirou tries, swallowing. “Um.”

Plisetsky rolls his head around until he can look at Kenjirou. “Run out of nice people?” he asks.

“My room is just down the hallway,” Kenjirou says. “But I wanted to ask you something, actually.”

“I can’t get you some of Katsuki’s underwear, and I wouldn’t if I could,” Plisetsky says. “Ew.”

Kenjirou opens his mouth and shuts it a few times. Plisetsky laughs.

“I _wouldn’t!_ ” Kenjirou finally says. “That’s disgusting. I _admire_ him, but –”

“Yeah, yeah.” Plisetsky brushes his hair off his face, away from the silver circle of his ship’s interface in the middle of his forehead. “So, go on. Ask.”

Kenjirou sighs and comes into the room proper, easing himself onto the couch with a squawking of springs. “You sounded like you know what’s wrong with him,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“What _isn’t_ wrong with him?” Plisetsky asks.

“He’s a –”

“He’s a _has-been,_ ” Plisetsky says. “He hasn’t even updated his ship interface, and he’s overdue. He’s going to let himself turn obsolete. It’s some stupid thing about the war, guilt or whatever, but I don’t get it. I mean, I killed people too, it sucks, but you don’t see me deciding to give up _flying_ over it.”

“You _what?_ ” Kenjirou realizes his mouth is hanging open, but Plisetsky isn’t looking at him.

“Yeah,” he says. “During the war. When they occupied the Jupiter stations. The guerilla pilots didn’t exactly check for birthdates. I flew cover for Victor and Katsuki during the Red-Spot Skirmish.”

“You…” Kenjirou bites down on a few words. “What are you doing out here _training,_ then?”

Plisetsky – Yurio? – snorts. “Rules. I’m not _accredited._ ” He tilts his head off the edge of the chair completely, hanging truly upside-down now, and Kenjirou sees his eyes are closed. “It’s not actually stupid. I’m _good,_ or they wouldn’t have taken me, but I’m pretty self-taught. And half-assed-taught. Half the things I know only work with particular ships, or work off bugs in the old interface coding, or you only do them if a forty percent chance of blowing up is safer than taking another ten seconds to turn. And I don’t know which of them are guerilla tricks and which are normal. I need to know how to do it right, or it’ll cripple me.”

“What are you learning _for?_ ” Kenjirou asks.

“Wormhole survey pilot,” Yurio says. “I’m going to be A-class, blind jumper. Through new wormholes to find out where they lead.”

“Wormhole wildcatters,” Kenjirou breathes. “That’s dangerous. And important.”

“Duh,” Yurio says, and hauls his head back upright. His face is flushed dark with the force of gravity. “What about you, Chirpy?”

“I don’t know yet,” Kenjirou confesses, flushing in his turn. “I’m just – going to see how good I can get.”

To his surprise, Yurio grins. “You know,” he says, “maybe you’re not totally disgusting after all.” He swings himself off the chair in a dizzying blur of limbs. “Good luck getting into Katsuki’s laundry basket.”

* * *

That night, Kenjirou shifts around in bed for an hour before he sighs, kicks the covers aside, grabs his phone, and pulls up the ansible net.

He’s looked up Katsuki Yuuri before, of course. (In his last year of secondary school he actually wrote a report on Yuuri, a fact he is determined never to mention.) Most of the statistics are familiar – age twenty-five, a hundred and thirty-five missions, five hundred and seventeen wormhole jumps.  Minami has managed three wormhole transits, not counting simulations, all of them under heavy supervision; each one has left him wrung-out and adrenaline-flooded, limp and beaming.

Today he scrolls past the merits, the awards, the thousand testimonies of skill. Four injuries in the line of duty, all heavily decorated – a rare award, in space combat. Shot down twice, ships destroyed – once in low orbit, once in a chase through an asteroid field. ‘Rescued by Viktor Nikiforov’ – is that the Viktor that Yurio keeps mentioning?

The kill counts, tucked at the bottom of the page, are listed by ship. Individual scuttlebugs, scout units, dreadnoughts. Right at the bottom of the list: troop carriers. Seven of them.

Kenjirou starts multiplying, loses track of the math, and whistles slowly in between his teeth. He puts his phone down, poking it out of easy reach as if it’s going to reach out and bite him, and burrows back into the bed. He can already tell it won’t be any easier to get to sleep.

* * *

“Mr. Katsuki?” Kenjirou squeaks, in the hallway outside the hanger bay. Yuuri half-turns, tugging at the sleeves of his coveralls.

“Yes?”

“Could I talk to you for a second? I’d really appreciate it,” Kenjirou tries, smiling hopefully. Yuuri sighs, just a little.

“Okay,” he says, turning the rest of the way to face Kenjirou. “What is it?”

“I just wanted to apologize for upsetting you the other day,” Kenjirou says.

“Oh.” Yuuri nods, slowly. “Um. I’m sorry too.”

“You don’t need to be!” Kenjirou pauses, considering. “I mean, thanks. I mean.”

The corner of Yuuri’s mouth tugs up. “It’s okay,” he says, and Kenjirou takes a deep breath.

“Did you know you saved my life?” he blurts? Yuuri blinks, twice.

“Sorry? I thought you lived in the Keplers,” he said.

“I did, but – when I was seventeen,” Kenjirou says. “I had something called Toplato Syndrome. It’s so rare, they don’t manufacture the medications anywhere in-system. And the planetary supply ran out after my first treatment.”

“Of how many?”

“Six.” Kenjirou rubbed at the back of his head. “It was… bad. My mama cried a lot.” He takes a deep breath. “And then you broke the blockades.”

“I didn’t _break –_ ”

“You got the shipments through,” Kenjirou says. He’s studied it – not only articles, but the actual ship paths, the records leaked onto the ansible net in an infodump of post-war whistleblowing. Katsuki Yuuri wasn’t the only flier, but he was the lynchpin. “They had the setrelexodyne. Plenty. In six months I was okay.”

Yuuri’s eyes are wide; he glances away, folding his arms around himself. “A lot of people died at the blockades,” he says. There’s a question in it.

“I know,” Kenjirou says. “But there was a lot of medicine on the ships. Medical equipment, too. Farming equipment – there were food shortages. Things like that.” Kenjirou hesitates. Yuuri glances at him and then away, lip caught between his teeth.

“I know you – I don’t have any idea what war is like, but I know it’s awful,” Kenjirou says. “But you saved a lot of people, too. I wanted to save people like you saved me. That’s all I wanted to say.” He stops. “Oh, and that I’m sorry for upsetting you.”

Yuuri looks up; his eyes are bright. “I – thank you,” he says. “Thank you.”

* * *

Someone –

“Hey, Chirpy, let me in!” –

Yurio is hammering on Kenjirou’s door. “Chirpy!”

“I have a _name,”_ Kenjirou says, pulling the door open.

“Yeah, Chirpy, I know you do,” Yurio says, stomping in. “What’d you say to the pig?”

“Okay, Grumpy,” Kenjirou says brightly, pulling out a chair. Yurio turns luminescent red, but he collapses into the chair, putting his feet up on the edge of Kenjirou’s bed. Kenjirou sighs.

“What do you mean, what did I say to Mr. Katsuki?” he hedges.

“He called Viktor,” Yurio says.

“…Is that bad?”

“Only for _me,”_ Yurio grouses. “Viktor called me afterwards and told me every single thing about it and every detail of Katsuki’s stupid face. I told him I _see_ his stupid face every day and Viktor just. Kept. Talking.”

“The two of you flew with Viktor – Nikiforov?” Kenjirou asks, and gets a nod. “During the war. Was Viktor, um…”

“The one he was screwing in the hangar bay?” Yurio asks. Kenjirou’s face warms, and Yurio smirks. “Yeah. And everywhere else. All the time. It was completely disgusting.”

“And Yuuri – Mr. Katsuki,” Kenjirou corrects himself, “he hasn’t been talking to him?”

“Yuuri hasn’t been talking to _anyone,_ ” Yurio says, rolling his eyes. “Viktor’s just the one who kept calling me for updates and looking like a kicked dog.” He pauses. “Fluffy animals, disgustingly enthusiastic. Like you.”

“We have dogs on Kepler-42!” Kenjirou protests. “I like them.”

“Cats are better,” Yurio snorts. “Anyway, Yuuri was hiding out at the back end of nowhere letting himself atrophy to death, and then you came stomping up to me and asked a bunch of questions, and now  Yuuri’s calling Viktor and setting up meetings with the postmilitary therapists –”

“Um, should you be telling me that?” Kenjirou cuts in, wincing. Yurio flinches, blinks twice, and regroups.

“Oh, like you’d do anything with it,” he says. “You’re harmless. Anyway, you talked to him and he’s started trying again. What’d you say? I’ve been trying for months.”

“You’ve been screaming at him for months!” Kenjirou protests. “I thought you hated him.”

Yurio looks away, hunches over, his hair falling over his eyes. Kenjirou frankly stares. It’s like watching a man shrink three inches; Yurio’s crackling energy spills over, takes up space around his body like an aura. Now it’s dimmed.

“I’ve been _trying,”_ Yurio says.

“Most people don’t feel better if you shout at them,” Kenjirou points out. “It usually just makes them feel worse.”

“Shut up, okay,” Yurio mumbles, and shoves his hair back. “So, are you going to tell me what you said or not!” He glares, flinging his arms out to fill the chair again, and Kenjirou shrugs.

“Just that I would’ve died if he hadn’t broken the wormhole blockades,” he says. “I mean, I already told him I admired him – and I do! – but that just upset him, and I’d only planned to apologize for upsetting him but I thought if I could just _explain,_ I could show him…” he trails off.

“Huh.” Yurio snorts. “He saved _my_ life three times, and that didn’t matter.”

“Did you try thanking him for it?” Kenjirou asks. “Does he know he did it?”

“He does,” Yurio says. “It probably wouldn’t have helped. We all saved each other a lot.”

“And that means it doesn’t count?”

Yurio shrugs again. “We were all part of the war, you know?” he says. “I always knew what I was flying _for_. I don’t know if he did.”

“Did it help?” Kenjirou asks, and claps his hand over his mouth. Yurio just shrugs.

“It’s enough, I guess. Why do you care?”

“Because I’m a nice person,” Kenjirou says, “and I don’t like it when people are suffering.”

“Well.” Yurio snorts. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” He swats at Kenjirou’s arm, but it’s gentle.

* * *

Kenjirou stretches his back out, sighing. He’s been polishing down the cockpit of the little ship that’s his for his time in the asteroids, because he’s always believed that a ship flies best when appreciated or at least that a pilot flies best when they appreciate their ship. It’s quiet in the hangar bay; Kenjirou was one of the last ones in for the day, and –

“Hey, Chirpy!”

Kenjirou yelps, catching himself on the edge of the cockpit, and slings himself down to the hangar floor. “What is it?” he calls, rolling his eyes. Yurio is standing by the huge screens that show the video feed of the space outside the doors, a tiny figure silhouetted against their glow. The station is rotated away from the tiny sun at the system’s center, and so outside the view is thick with stars.

“Come look,” Yurio demands, and Kenjirou sighs but he goes.

One of the asteroid tows is out there still, spiraling through the vacuum in a heavy pirouette. Everyone joyrides, though the cost for the fuel comes out of your pay, but not so many people do it in the quiet and no one at all does it so well. It reverses on the spot, flipping over on itself, and Kenjirou catches his breath, reaching to levers that aren’t there to try and feel out how he could pull that off. The serial numbers on the fins come into view: that’s Katsuki Yuuri ’s ship.

“Wow,” Kenjirou breathes.

“ _That,_ ” Yurio says, jabbing a finger at the screens, “that’s how he’s supposed to be flying! That’s what it should look like.”

“It’s beautiful,” Kenjirou says: and it is. The tows handle heavy and slow, but Yuuri’s coaxing his through a flight of fancy, making it dance against the stars. Something makes him glance over; Yurio’s eyes are shining, his fingers set to his parted lips.

“So the two of you really are friends, then!” Kenjirou says, beaming with discovery. “You care about him.”

Yurio scoffs, not looking away from Yuuri’s ship. “We’re not _friends,_ ” he says. “He’s an idiot and a loser. I just think he’s too good a pilot to stay a loser.”

“Uh-huh.” Kenjirou purses his lips. “Do you _have_ friends?” It’s not a very nice question, but then, Yurio’s not a very nice person. Kenjirou has a little more leeway.

“I have a friend!” Yurio says, snorting. “His name’s Otabek Altin. Being friends was his idea in the first place – he suggested it. He’s a military scout now.” He folds his arms, looking away from the screen at last to glare at Kenjirou. “So there.”

“I see,” Kenjirou says, smiling. It’s good that Yurio has a friend he’ll admit to, at least. Maybe – “What if we were friends?”

Yurio squints. “Are you suggesting it?”

“Yes,” Kenjirou decides. “Let’s be friends. If you want to be.”

“Well,” Yurio says. “You’d better give me your ansible codes, then. If we’re going to be friends.” He shrugs one shoulder. “I’ve got my next assignment, after the quarter ends next month. Shuttle scutwork, but once I prove I’m good at it I’ll start pulling wormhole shifts.”

“Wow,” Kenjirou says. “Congratulations!” He hesitates. “I have another quarter here. I don’t know what I’ll be doing after that.” Yurio just grunts.

“Don’t you waste yourself either,” he says. “Find something good. I’ll come yell at you otherwise.”

Kenjirou bites down on a smile. There’s something fun about being able to translate Yurio into a normal person. “Good luck to you too,” he says. “I’ll send my codes to your room hookup.”

\--

When he gets back to the room, there’s a message blinking on his phone – the room number, local subspace, not the ansible net. The signoff is – he gulps – Katsuki Yuuri.

 _I just wanted to say thank you for what you said to me,_ it says. _I think I needed to hear it._ Another message, stamped a few seconds later: _I think you’ll be a really good pilot._

Kenjirou collapses back onto his bed, beaming at the ceiling. He’s still smiling ten minutes later when he sends his codes to Yurio.  


End file.
